


Nocturnes & Other 2014 TGS Advent Challenge Short Fic

by BourbonNeat



Category: Top Gear (UK) RPF
Genre: Banter, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Established Relationship, First Time, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-02
Updated: 2015-01-02
Packaged: 2018-03-04 21:33:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,322
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3091016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BourbonNeat/pseuds/BourbonNeat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five largely unrelated Top Gear droubles and other short fic from the 2014 TGS Advent Challenge.</p><p>Ratings are mostly PG, with one NC-17 PWP, and pairings are predominantly James/Jeremy with a little Richard/Jeremy thrown in. Both are indicated in the chapter title.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Nocturnes - James/Jeremy, NC-17

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This is fiction. It never happened and is not meant to imply anything about the people featured in the story. Complete unreality from a fanciful mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A drouble dribble for James May Week, using the theme Christmas Music.

Moonlight steals into the darkened room, through the gaps that remain between hastily closed curtains, casting the bodies that writhe on the bed in silvery light and shadow. Jeremy’s voice rises, deep and rich and resonant, as James lovingly caresses every careworn inch of that long body.

A groan. An encouragement. A sigh. The sonorous rumblings of an upright bass. An instrument he has ached to play for years. He strums his fingers over quivering thighs, strokes them across stuttering hips, in syncopation with the rhythm he teases out with lips and tongue, wringing the most beautiful sounds from that gorgeous baritone.

A gasp. A plea. A moan, long and low, tapering off into a whimper. He takes Jeremy, thick and pulsing, into his mouth, as impatient heels cease drumming and dig into the mattress, and the bedsprings begin to creak.

Until… Rest, a pause. And insistent hands pull him up.

The solo becomes a duet, accompanied by the slow, steady percussion of the headboard against the wall. Lips crash, tongues slide, bodies rock. And oh God, and yes, and fuck, and please. Hips roll together. A slow grind that builds, harder, faster, more.

Sharp cries, hushed tones, and long, drawn out strings of nonsense more lyrical than words.

Crescendo. And rest.

Softly, softly. Languid kisses, soothing hands. The warm rumble of Jeremy’s voice in his ear. “God Slow, I’ve wanted this, wanted you, for so long.”

A present James never dared to ask for, and the best gift he’s ever received.


	2. May Nothing You Dismay, Parts 1 - 3 - James/Jeremy, PG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A series of three short pieces for Jeremy Clarkson Week, using the themes Frosty, Father Christmas, and Hope respectively.

Jeremy heaved himself off of the sofa with a grunt and shuffled over to the thermostat, back hunched and creaking from too much time spent in one position. Adjusting the heat for the third time, he finally had to admit that this particularly tenacious chilled feeling had little to do with the actual temperature.

The book that had so excited him just days before failed to hold his attention now, and all attempts at writing just resulted in pages of useless, maudlin crap. Staying alone for Christmas had certainly seemed much less rubbish last week. He simply hadn’t let himself consider how much more keenly he would mourn her absence today, especially with so much time to think. Wished he’d thought for a moment longer before sending James away.

Francie’s invitation to join the family had been genuine – concerned, even – but he knew that drink, his mouth and several days on the Isle of Man with her new man was a recipe for something frosty at best. His children would come stay with him next week instead, their new tradition. An intelligent, adult decision, really. Except for the part where he was now alone for several days, brain churning with genuine regret over gruff, dismissive words, on top of grief and loss. The stubborn git – alright, stubborn _gits_ – never had known when to–

And who could possibly be knocking at the bloody door this time? He didn’t think he could handle any more festive neighborly bollocks. At least, not politely…

 

*********

 

“Um. Hello, Mr. Clarkson. Mum said I should bring you this.”

The teenager at his door ground the toe of one trainer into the carpet, looking thoroughly embarrassed to be making her mother’s deliveries. Of course, at that age wasn’t everything mum and dad did embarrassing? For the first time all day, Jeremy smiled as he accepted the brightly colored tin.

“Well, I see that Father Christmas is alive and well, Emma. Thank you.”

He was genuinely touched by the gesture, and it must have shown in his smile because Emma brightened instantly, her standard-issue teenage uniform of self-conscious cool giving way to a sweet smile of her own.

“It’s gingerbread. Mum’s is awfully good.”

“Sweeeeet. I remember it well from last year. Happy Christmas, Emma. Please give my thanks to your mum. She’s been – well, this was very kind.”

Beyond kind. Mrs. Crewe’s biscuits and cakes began appearing shortly after he’d moved to the flat full-time, and they never failed to appear whenever the papers decided to resume their public beatings. A dear woman, even if her husband drove a Prius.

Jeremy had just started eyeing the gingerbread tin when he heard a key turn in the lock. An impossible sound, because only a handful of keys to his flat existed, all of which should be comfortably resting in their owners’ pockets many miles from here. Unless said key belonged to a stubborn git, of course. Stubborn and wonderful.

Striding out of the kitchen, he was unsurprised to find himself face to face with concerned blue eyes and a mischievous smile. Unsurprised. Annoyed, because they _had_ decided… And grateful, so fucking grateful.

“James?”

“You were expecting what? Father Christmas?”

“But you were supposed to be…”

“Here,” James said, pulling him into a warm embrace. “I’m supposed to be here.”

 

*********

 

“I’m glad you’re here. But we agreed–”

James’ eyes twinkled fondly and his lips curved in a knowing smile. “No, we shouted. You were louder. And wrong, naturally. And I gave you a day’s space to clear your head.”

Jeremy couldn’t help his own smile because, really, a day’s space was best when one of them was in a strop. Otherwise they just started arguing again. Of course, his mouth had run away with him a bit more than usual this time. The smile turned into something closer to contrite.

“But I said–”

“Doesn’t matter. I do know you, Jeremy.”

Sitting on the sofa with wine and the cooling remains of takeaway, James’ leg a solid, comfortable pressure against his own, they spent hours talking about nothing, understanding everything. Not talking about it, not having to talk about it, was good. Necessary. Occasionally, he would anyway and that was needed too. With surprise, he realized he was feeling better.

Jeremy put his hand over James’, where it rested on his knee and squeezed. “You’re not actually crap at this, you know…”

“Careful, Clarkson. That was dangerously close to an apology. Now I really am worried about you.” But he turned his hand over under Jeremy’s and squeezed back.

Jeremy sighed, an unexpectedly contented sound. In many ways, it was still a mopey, rubbish Christmas. But he found that he had genuine hope for the New Year, and it had been a long time since he’d been able to say that.

 


	3. Love - Richard/Jeremy, PG

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not quite a drouble drabble for Richard Hammond Week, using the theme Love.

The ringing mobile is an unwelcome intrusion on his precious few minutes of downtime between takes. Richard has no intention of answering it, until he sees the caller’s name.

“Hammond!” Jeremy’s voice booms on the other end, followed, without any further preamble, by a string of hyperbole-laden observations besmirching the character of the new Porsche he’s test driving in Germany.

“Idiot. I miss you too,” Richard laughs. “Despite the fact that you are clearly blind and going senile on top of it.”

When he responds, Richard can hear the unacknowledged tension leaving the other man’s voice and the warmth creeping in. Jeremy would never allow himself to say anything so soppy as, ‘I just needed to hear your voice,’ but the sentiment is clear. A year ago, this realization might have sent Richard into sputtering fits of downplaying and denial. Now it just brings a smile to his face and makes something inside his chest flip pleasantly.

They only talk for a few minutes more, about nothing, really. Fond insults, their respective car reviews, and next week’s filming schedule. It’s everything, really, that they are now each other’s first person to call when they need… Well, just when they need. This has become so much more than just shagging.

Richard’s not ready to say it. Soon, very soon in fact, but not quite yet. Which is fine, really, because if he’s reading everything properly, Jeremy’s not quite ready to hear it yet either. But he can put a name to it now, this feeling that’s been growing for quite a while if he’s honest, and that thought makes him giddy.

 

 


End file.
